


Cohabitating

by thepeskyunicorn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Gen, illyap and catpoleon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaby was returning from her morning run when she sees the cat.<br/>And later, when she is fed up with the unrelenting wave of bland, boring men, she decides to get a dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I finally caved and wrote a tmfu fic after reading almost everything ao3 has to offer.  
> I absolutely adore animals, and this post: http://ingu.tumblr.com/post/131073526468/requiodile-catpoleon-a-very-very  
> is just the absolute cutest so I HAD to write a fic  
> I've lived with cats all my life so writing Illyap is a little harder. Any suggestions for writing dog behaviors are welcome!  
> Note: so sorry for the stilty writing. I'm really out of practice ugh
> 
> This chapter focuses on Gaby meeting Catpoleon

Gaby was returning from her morning run when she sees the cat, nosing around the plants she grows outside her tiny house, occasionally nibbling a leaf and purring contentedly.

Black all over with grubby white socks, it holds itself with an air of nonchalance, winding its sleek body through the leaves with obvious grace. Sparing her a demure glance as she slows, it cautiously moves, muscular body stepping obliquely towards her.

"Well, hello there," she murmurs, still a little out of breath, squatting down to approach it. 

The cat looks at her sweaty form in disdain, but still slinks forward to rub a head across her knee, ruffling its well groomed fur in the process. Gaby grinned in delight, rewarding it with a neck scratch.

After a few long minutes of petting the cat, Gaby stands, relishing the ache in her thighs, preparing to head back to the house. There is no collar on the cat, meaning that it's most likely a stray, so she'd best leave it alone to do what it desires.

Surprisingly, the cat let out a protesting meow, trotting a little to catch up with Gaby and winding around her legs to look at her plaintively. Any attempts to walk only fueled the cat's enthusiasm, making it impossible to move without falling over.

Realising it was probably hungry, she cooed her reassurance to it and after a few tries, miraculously dislodged the persistent creature to pad through the house for something suitable. 

The stale bread she offers is unceremoniously rejected, as is the can of tuna, both ending with the cat sniffing delicately before turning away in disgust, then turning to meow at her beseechingly.

"You're a picky eater, aren't you," she murmurs, standing with her hands on her hips, considering the scene. A can of opened tuna, likely going to waste, a scattering of bread crumbs likely to attract the birds which will ultimately lead to them shitting all over the floor and destroying the plants, and a hungry black cat who has somehow appointed her as it's designated feeder. Plus, there's the unpleasant stench of sweat still pressed to her skin.

In the end, she ends up jogging to the nearest pet store and buying the second most expensive cat food they had, leaving the cat with a battered slipper to amuse itself while it wait.

Her choice of food proved to be acceptable for the cat, who eats it eagerly before curling up in a sunny spot, purring away. It was gone by the time Gaby came out from her shower, leaving only an empty tin of cat food and some chewed up basil leaves.

\-- 

The cat visits often, and can often be seen lounging in a shady spot when Gaby comes home from work,eyes blinking sleepily at the sound of her footsteps. She delights in its hearty welcome of loud purrs and headbutts, happily giving it all the head and chin scratches it wants. She usually leaves a plate of food out in the evening while it roams her little garden, and both the food and the cat is usually gone by the time she cleans up at night.

During the weekends, she'd sit on a chair in front of her house, reading, as the cat snoozes with its white socks tucked under its body or chase the bees and butterflies. It makes a pleasant company despite its inability to make conversation, although Gaby suspects that it would be a very talkative one, what with the amount of meows, chirps, and squeaks it directs at her every day.

Gaby supposes that the cat has adopted her as a family and friend, keeping her company when it (or he, as she finally found out after doing a bit of research) is present. He always keeps an immaculate appearance, although it's white feet are always slightly muddy (though she thinks he purposely let's it be that way to look debonair) and Gaby is especially taken by the coy way it ducks it's head to blink up at her.

'You should have a name, you know,' she muses one day as she strokes along his back. The cat raises his butt in pleasure, tail curling high and contented look on his face. 'I can't just keep calling you 'the cat' although,' she runs her fingers up his tail. 'Although that's very Holly Golightly-ish to do so.' God knows she already spends enough of her earnings on sixties dresses and round sunglasses.

The cat is unceremoniously named Napoleon, after the general, mostly because she finds the name amusing. Napoleon doesn’t get a collar, though, because even though Gaby feeds him everyday and his collection of toys grows from a battered slipper to a couple of greasy cloths from her work at the garage and a felt mouse she picked up at a yard sale, he is a wild thing, coming and going as he pleases, belonging to no one. Creatures like Napoleon flourish best in wide open spaces, and Gaby would hate to see him cooped up in the claustrophobic house.

And so, Napoleon becomes a fixture in Gaby's life, and the street comes to know them as the lady mechanic and the black cat with white socks, an inseparable duo living in the small house at the end of the lane.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon brings Gaby gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter of exploring Catpoleon's character!

Gaby has always known that Napoleon is not a normal cat.

Well, he is normal in the sense that he functions the same as every other cat she has ever known or met, but there were subtle differences - more of quirks, really - that sets him apart from others.

For example, Napoleon’s fur is always sleek and clean, no matter how many times he rolls in the grass or goes exploring. He only eats the most expensive cat food (or second most expensive; Gaby has no desire to cater to his extravagantly silly taste and besides, it’s not like Napoleon ever knows the difference). He gets into fights often, because he keeps stealing other cat’s possessions, but only ever gets off with a few minor scratches or a limp. His opponents, however, aren’t so lucky. Gaby knows; she had several cat owners complain to her about Napoleon but that never stops him. And the best of all, Napoleon always gives Gaby the most unusual gifts.

Gaby stares in amazement at the shiny bottlecaps and coins scattered across her doorway, with a very pleased Napoleon circling and nudging her calves. Bending down to pick them up, she gave Napoleon a scratch and murmured her appreciation, mentally adding the items to her growing stash of all things bright and shiny. So far, she had sequins, a key, a few unidentifiable metal bits, a LED torch with the switch left on, and her personal favourite, a pearl earring. At this rate, Napoleon would be better off as a magpie.

"Well darling, you do know how to woo a lady, don’t you?" She gives him an extra chin rub, smiling as she feels his purr like a well oiled motor beneath her fingers. Turning the bottlecaps in the fingers, she frowns. "Where do you get all these anyway?" 

Napoleon slowly closes his eyes, opening them again with a yawn, sly and nonchalant.

"You’re a thief, you know," she admonishes quietly. "And one day, when you’re caught, I’m not going to come to your rescue." She taps Napoleon’s nose in reprimand. All she got from her scoldings is Napoleon’s coy glance and another yawn.

Gaby count her lucky stars that at least Napoleon isn’t leaving her dead wildlife.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby adopts Illya

There comes a time in a lady’s life where, when she is of a certain age, there will be the overwhelming pressure to get married.

Gaby has absolutely none of such inclinations.

"You should settle down," her friends reason. "Find a nice man to share your life with."

"Your biological clock is ticking," her parents coaxed. "Don’t you want children?"

“You mean a nice, young girl like you haven’t thought about getting married before?” quizzed the customers at the garage.

Gaby, who had all her life cultivated a habit of not listening to what others want from her, only ever grimaced and changed the subject. Marriage is as foreign a concept to her as having children, and so far, her parents and friends promises of the 'right guy' turning up seems more of a pipe dream fed by too many Disney movies, than a reality.

So, she turned down the blind dates and scared off the more persistent suitors by acting in the most unappealing way possible, which include but are not limited to: ordering food with the most garlic in it, talking about her job as a very competent car mechanic, dropping strong hints that she did not find the other at all interesting, and nodding off during the middle of the conversation.

Finally, fed up with the unrelenting wave of bland, boring men, she decides to get a dog.

\---

The giant dog currently half curled up under the coffee table of her living room was not what she had in mind when fulfilling her agenda of ‘get a dog’, but he had looked at her with those puppy dog eyes and licked her hand from where he was squeezed into the tiny cage at her local pet rescue centre, and she was gone. It was pitiful, the way the dog tried to gnaw his way out of the uncomfortably small cage, limbs unable to stretch fully. 

Apparently, the dog, or Illya, as his tag had read, is a mix between a husky and an east-european shepherd. While the particular breed is usually of a moderate size, Illya is intimidatingly large, with his head coming up to her chest and a body of a german shepherd on steroids. Coupled with the unimpressed look he gave the keeper who coaxed him out of his cage, Illya would make a sufficiently terrifying ally. Gaby grinned to herself. Illya would be the perfect third wheel at any date. 

She listens attentively when the keeper explained Illya's history and his personality. He hadn’t been in the best condition when the rescue center found him, skinny, limping badly, and bleeding from a large wound on his face, abandoned by his owner and thrown into an illegal dog fighting ring, but they managed to clean him up. She winced, fingers twitching to trace the scars and sooth the poor beast.

According to the employee, Illya used to wreck everything in sight, setting off at the slightest provocation, sometimes coming close to biting other employees when they tried to approach him. He was self destructive and uncaring, untamed fear channeling into rage with the manic desire to destroying everything and everyone who was near. Now, after extensive therapy and behavior classes from the local dog therapists who kindly offered to volunteer at the shelter, he limits his aggression to growling softly at visitors and occasionally snapping at other dogs.

Surprisingly, instead of a low rumbling of warning, he only whines and licks her fingers as she reached out to stroke him. Gaby feels a thrill of happiness as Illya accepts her pettings with a wagging tail. There is a gentleness to Illya that seems so out of place with the size of his body, but nevertheless, Gaby finds herself charmed by him.

Illya is perfectly well behaved, a testament to his guard dog training in his past, and follows Gaby around the house, occasionally nosing the small of her back or giving a soft yip as he gets used to the unfamiliar surroundings. He was perfectly silent as she prepared his meal, a stark difference from Napoleon, who could usually be heard protesting loudly from outside as he waits impatiently. He receives his head rubs with eyes closed and a small smile, tentatively licking her fingers in return, and then her neck and face when she gave no sign of disapproval.

Illya is by far the gentlest dog she's met. He doesn't bark, doesn't try to bite her, and hasn't destroyed anything in the house yet (as compared to the multiple mutilated shoes Napoleon had left for her when Gaby had been foolish enough to leave them outside). After his meal, she set him free to wander the house, turning on her computer and settling in with a glass of wine as she leaves him be. She could hear the 'clack clack' of his toenails and the occasional soft thump, but other than that, he was mostly silent, leaving her to enjoy her drink and her work in silence.

She was halfway through the finalising process when she felt a heavy weight on her knees. Raising the laptop, she is greeted with the sight of Illya's inquisitive eyes. At capturing her attention, his tail starts to wag, making a muffled thumping sound against the floor. He gives a soft wuff, almost a sound of agreement with his new home and a question as to what she is doing. 

'You wouldn't understand what I'll tell you, darling,' she answers his silent question, setting aside her laptop and drink, deciding she had done enough for the afternoon. Sinking down to the floor, she scratched Illya behind his ears, moving on to his belly at his sigh of content. His head alone is larger than both her hands, and despite the softness in his gaze, there is a certain coiled intensity under his fur, rippling along his muscles as Gaby reached to touch.

'You know, if you're going to be this gentle when I bring you out on my dates, I'll never be able chase the men away.'

Illya lifted his head and laid it on her thigh, eyebrows raised. She gave his head an affectionate pet. 'You're an absolute sweetheart, aren't you?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've only ever volunteered at animal shelters, so what you read may contain inaccuracies! I apologise in advance for that.  
> Helping out in animal shelters is certainly an eye opening experience and I strongly encourage those who are passionate about animals to help out! Although you will probably be doing the more menial tasks most of the time, you learn that caring for pets isn't as easy as it seems, plus the bond you form with the animals is gonna be strong and long lasting.  
> Lastly, and I know everyone already knows this, adopt a pet instead of buying!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon's and Illya's first meeting goes as well as you think it is. Which is, not at all. Gaby is fed up at the mess she has to clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> calm yo tits boys. you can always share.  
> if you have any suggestions for the kind situations you want to find them in, do leave a comment! i love prompts.

Gaby rethinks her idea of Illya as 'gentle' when she goes out to put Napoleon's food in his designated spot. She had left her door open as she prepared Napoleon’s food and water, finding it easier to ferry the bowls out that way. 

But what she isn’t expecting is this. Gaby let out a gasp of horror, almost dropping the bowls, as she stared at the carnage before her. Her garden is a mess of broken pottery and dirt, her carefully planted flowers lying tattered around two snarling figures. 

Napoleon and Illya are circling each other, raised hackles and muscles tensed for attack. Despite their obvious size difference, it is clear that they are evenly matched. The air is thick with tension, and the sight of blood matting both their fur made Gaby gag a little.

Napoleon is hissing, snarl building low in his throat, eyes narrowed to slits and claws unsheathed. Even pissed, he looks magnificent, black fur standing on ends and anger radiating from him. Gaby now knows why the other cats in the neighbourhood had been at such a disadvantage. Although not the largest amongst his species, he has cunning and trickery, and when all else fails, a large repertoire of fighting skills and experience to rely on.

Illya was a phenomenon to watch in motion. His growl reverberates through the air, muscles rippling as he prowled, no trace of domesticity present, just pure animalistic strength and instinct as he circles, one step in front of the other, calculating and dangerous. His rage is mesmerising, with teeth and ears pulled back, Illya is a wolf, a long forgotten predator out for the kill.

It seems that they are at an impasse, both wary of the other’s next move and oblivious to her presence. Since throwing herself at them is a dangerous, and therefore out of the question option, she would need something sufficiently large enough to distract them. Gaby took a deep breath. 

“ENOUGH!”

Napoleon and Illya froze, heads snapping to her, eyes comically wide.

Gaby fixes them with a death glare, one she knows has been proven the scare the shit out of grown men. “Both of you are big enough to know how to play nice,” Gaby said, setting down the bowls and advancing towards them. “So WHY am I acting like your mother?”

Illya duck his head, letting out a chagrined whine, his tail dipping between his legs. Napoleon let out an indignant meow, but settles his fur and looks away.

“Both of you should be very ashamed of yourself,” Gaby continues. “Napoleon, this is Illya's home as much as it is yours. So either you both coexist peacefully, or both of you won't get any love tonight.” Damn, it sounded so much better in her head. Shifting the cat bowl to the correct spot as angrily as she could manage without tipping anything over, she pointed towards the house. 'Illya, in.'

She should probably be feeling more angry than she currently is, what with the garden in an absolute mess and the state of both Illya's and Napoleon's fur means they'd both have to take a shower afterwards, something she does not look forward to, but all she feels is amusement and a twinge of guilt at the way Illya is acting so apologetically. Although he could easily crush Gaby, he tried to draw himself in, almost crawling on his belly as he went into the house, careful to avoid the shards of pottery. Napoleon’s eyes tracked Illya's movement, looking half triumphant, half recalcitrant. He trotted forward to rub his head against Gaby's calf in apology, before turning to lick his wounds.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the fight.

Gaby treated their wounds separately, locking Illya in the bathroom after she tended to the scratches on his face to turn her attention to Napoleon. Illya had been perfectly still while she dabbed disinfectant on the cuts even though it must have stung, staring at her with sad eyes and softly licking her hand. Gaby feels her heart melt, and she finds herself whispering words of consolation and copious repeatings of ‘good boy’s, which is something she would never do to anyone else or in public.Illya looked slightly panicked when she stepped out of the bathroom, probably thinking that he was being punished, but Gaby gave him a few doggie treats and a belly rub before turning the lock. She feels a little bad for doing this, but it's better than risking another fight happening. Anyway, Illya had started exploring the toilet bowl and the water inside, so she probably needn't worry.

She turns her attention to Napoleon, setting him down on the floor which she had the foresight to spread newspaper on. Napoleon hated being fussed over, and tried meowing and wriggling his way out, but gave up in the end with a disgruntled huff when Gaby threatened to hug him. He compromised by being as uncooperative as possible, twisting and turning to prevent Gaby from touching the gash on his side. 

In the end, she managed to disinfect the cut and bandage it after much threats and exasperated warnings. Gaby finally plunked a very surly Napoleon on the sofa to salvage his dignity while she packed up the first aid kit.

Clearing the antiseptic and cotton pads from the floor, Gaby almost jumped in fright when she noticed Illya lying a distance away from her, eyeing Napoleon from where he is curled on the carpet. 

"You gave me a scare!" she bends down to give Illya's head a quick rub, careful to avoid his wounds. "Who knew you were smart enough to open locked doors?" 

Illya gives a wuff of indignation, looking slightly offended that Gaby assumed he did not have it in him. She smiles at his expression, moving to scratch under his chin. "Smart boy!" she cooed, remembering the advice to reward with positive reinforcement.

Illya's tail thumped and his ears pricked forward as he responded eagerly to the praise. Behind her, Napoleon yowled, clearly put out at not being called the same. Gaby ignored him. His ego is big enough without her trying to inflate it.

Gaby is pleasantly surprised when she reentered the living room to see the two animals sniffing cautiously around each other. Or more like Napoleon sniffing cautiously at Illya, testing his limits and personal boundaries, while Illya looked on, posture relaxed but aware, tail swishing from side to side, disdain clear on his face. Napoleon has dragged along a rolled up strip of newspaper as a peace offering, holding it in his mouth as he jumped down from his spot, giving up his height advantage to head towards Illya.

Napoleon advanced, tail held high with a friendly crook, moving to nuzzle Illya's flank and dropping the ball of newspaper under his nose, ignoring the warning growl from the dog. At Gaby's look of 'play nice', Illya quieted, grumbling under his breath but allowing Napoleon to brush against him, enduring it with a long suffering expression.

Napoleon digs his claws into the carpet, stretching and purring before curling up on Illya's side, blinking slowly up at Gaby. He seems unconcerned with the way Illya had gone rigid, body held perfectly still as Napoleon snuggles in closer and nudged the side of Illya's chin. 

 

Illya examined the ball critically, pushing it around with his nose, grumbling at how ill formed it looks. Finally, he gives it an approving nod and turns to Napoleon, who is curled into a ball by his side and flexing his claws.

Slowly, carefully, Illya gave a tiny lick to the side of Napoleon’s face, tail slowly starting to wag as Napoleon’s purr increased in volume and rolled over, stretching long and lazy. Painting a long strip from Napoleon’s chest to the tip of his chin, he recoils a little as Napoleon reaches up to bat his nose, leaning down again to sniff at Napoleon, tail thumping in earnest.

It's unbearably cute, the way they are cavorting around each other, cautiousness burning away to fragile friendliness. Illya had left momentarily, much to Napoleon’s confusion and indignation, to retrieve a squeaky toy Gaby bought for him earlier, dropping it in front of Napoleon as a gesture of peace. Nudging it towards Napoleon, he kneeled, butt sticking up and tongue hanging out in a request to play. 

Napoleon sniffed the toy delicately, deeming it adequate before batting it about, snatching it away at the last minute as Illya tried to grab it from him.

Gaby watched their play with satisfaction, fighting the urge to fling herself down on the sofa. The garden is still a mess, her living room is filled with the dirt that Napoleon and Illya brought in, and she still has to give both of them a bath. 

Turning from them, she pulled out a pair of garden gloves and plastic bag, reluctant to get to work. As far as first meetings went, it could have been worse. She sighed. These two are going to be the death of her one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream at me on tumblr abt tmfu; i'm very lonely there: myskittlesexploded.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon and Illya takes a bath. Gaby gets very wet.

The good news is that some of the plants survived the fallout, with the roots and stem wholely intact, but Gaby still mourned the loss of her chili plant.

She isn't worried about repotting them. Come to think of it, she has a blind date later this week. She could always suggest a gardening session as a 'get to know you better' and get him to do most of the hard work. No, what worries her now is how to wash one animal at a time while keeping the other from wandering. She only has one bathroom, and there is no way in hell she's keeping the other in the living room or any one of the rooms. Not with their matted fur caked with dust and dirt and blood and most the said disgusting things have already been transferred to her furniture. Over her dead body.

And so, she ends up being cramped in a tiny bathroom which was originally meant to fit one petite bathtub, a toilet, and a sink. There isn't even space to swing a proverbial cat in. Not that she'd try with Napoleon. Stuffing Illya in there just now had been quite the struggle, but this required very careful maneuvering and serious contortions of the body.

Illya is finally squeezed by the sink and ordered to stay put and not move, which he complied to with a serious bark, while a very, very irritated Napoleon is stuck into the bathtub, kicking up a storm about the water not being the right temperature. Illya alternate between growling and whining from the corner at Napoleon’s complaint, occasionally twitching as if to move Gaby’s thighs aches from squatting, her shirt is soaked through, and she feels a migraine coming on.

"Napoleon, would you please shut up, I don't care that the water's too hot or cold or that whatever I'm soaping you with isn't your favourite brand of body wash; please just keep quiet and we'll be done." Napoleon yowled miserably and raised a paw. "And don't you even think about scratching me."

Napoleon hesitates, thought better of it, and lowers his paw like it was his idea all along. 

After towelling him off, Napoleon shot off from between Gaby’s legs, jumping onto the toilet seat and looking down imperiously at her. He lifts a paw and obnoxiously starts to groom, laying his fluffed fur flat. Gaby, very much exhausted and pissed, raise a middle finger at him, weakly throwing the wet towel in his general direction.

Illya is up next. Napoleon stays, as if to offer support for a fellow creature, or to watch him suffer the same torture he just went through. Gaby thinks the latter. Illya, however, stood completely still beneath the running water, eyes closing in pleasure as she massages the soap into his fur. He seems to be on a mission to show Napoleon who the real 'good boy' is, or maybe he just feels like pissing Napoleon off by showing that he enjoys himself. Gaby shakes her head. She’s not going to be involved in their silly war.

Napoleon watches, tail swinging and twitching agitatedly over the toilet seat, turning his head away with his nose in the air whenever Illya turns to aim a stare at him. Illya must be enjoying himself more than Napoleon wishes he is, so he gives up, curling into a ball to take a nap. His slits his eyes to watch as Gaby hose Illya down, ears flicking as a few stray drops of water lands on him.

Illya continues to be still through the towelling process, only moving when Gaby drops the towel to sit on the floor, limbs splayed out in exhaustion as Illya nosed her throat and whined. Giving her a few small licks, he nudged her stomach, looking inquisitively at her wet shirt.

Gaby laughs tiredly. “Yes, I suppose I do have to take a shower now. Why don’t you both scram and let me have a few minutes of peace?”

She stands clumsily, reaching over Illya to pull the plug from the bathtub. Illya skittles out of the way, head turning from the half full bathtub to Napoleon, and back again. He cocks his head. Gaby could almost see the idea pop up in his head. 

“Illya, don’t-”

Too late. Dipping his paw in the water, Illya flicked as hard as he could in Napoleon’s general direction.

Napoleon shot upright, hissing, furious and wet, feigned disinterest clearly forgotten. He glanced in Gaby’s direction where she is choking back a laugh, betrayed, and tried to leap off the toilet lid, slipping in the process and ended up sprawling inelegantly on the bathroom floor. Yowling, he sprinted off, ego thoroughly bruised.

Illya huffed in a canine approximation of a laugh, turning to look at Gaby, immeasurably proud. Gaby couldn’t help herself, trying to stifle her giggle as she stepped out to see Napoleon perching on top of her bed, grooming. He pretends not to notice her, hissing as he sees Illya emerge, jumping off and trotting to the living room, nose in the air. 

She reached down to pat Illya, grinning at the speed his tail his wagging. “Darling, you’re so very mean,” she patted his bum, moving towards the direction of the living room. “And I love it. Come on, let’s make sure Napoleon doesn’t tear up up my sofa, shall we?’ The poor cat would probably need more chin scratches than usual, and maybe bribed with kibble or a new toy before he would get around to acknowledging Gaby again, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel too bad about it. If she’s to be honest, both of them provide more than enough entertainment, and are certainly much more entertaining than her dates. Smiling, she head towards the kitchen after making sure that Napoleon is nowhere near anything expensive, already trying to determine what to offer to be back on Napoleon’s good grace.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night with Napoleon and Illya is the worst and Gaby is loving it.

Friday is officially Gaby's least favorite day of the week. It's close enough to the weekend to make her feel eternally frustrated, orders for repair works seem to pile up, and her dates always have the audacity to think Friday is a perfectly fine day to go out. Eight hours of work at a garage can leave one fatigued and grumpy, not to mention very dirty. The last thing she wants is a bloody date.

All Gaby wants to do is go home, have a nice long soak in the bathtub of her locked bathroom (Illya has literally no concept of private space) and cuddle up with her dog. Sometimes, Napoleon deigned to grace them with his presence, letting himself in through the cat flap Gaby installed, and it makes for a perfect evening marathoning movies and tv shows with Napoleon purring on her lap and Illya curled beside her.

But no, her perfect night in has to be on hold because a one Peter Clarkson has decided to ask her out on a date. To his house, for dinner.

Gaby became aware of Clarkson's existence last week, during a mandatory weekly family meeting. Apparently, Clarkson is one of Gaby mother’s client, and from what she could gather from her mother's rambling, he's very rich, very eligible, and slightly serial killer-ish (the last one, she came to the conclusion herself. Who actually has first dates over at your own house? Unless you're planning to murder her, of course).

He's nice enough when they met, but boring in the way only a man working a desk job and earning three times her salary can be. She gave him her number before she left, thinking that maybe he won't call, seeing how she tried her very best to act absolutely disinterested.

But he had texted, asking for a date. It was only the promise of free food and the chance to let Illya prove his less gentle side that she reluctantly agreed. This is the final time she's giving her number away to suitors. At least Clarkson has the decency not to call her at all hours of the day and ask her for nudes like the last one. She'd hacked into his phone to play moans and various other sex noises when it rings, and then hacked into his company's security camera to observe the ensuing shame and embarrassment.

Gaby stared longingly at her flat screen TV and gritted her teeth, making her way to her bedroom to change.

"Illya, darling," she sighed, patting his head from where he is draped across the sofa, snoozing (Gaby sometimes suspects Illya is an old man stuck in a young dog's body). He huffed softly and nosed her palm, sleepy eyes looking adoringly at her. "Please make him regret ever asking me out."

\-----

 

Gaby is halfway to Clarkson's house in her favorite dress and Illya in the backseat when she heard a soft meow.

There is a terrifying moment as she swerved off the road, swearing loudly, clumsy fingers going to unbuckle her seatbelt to twist in her seat. Peering over to the back, she is met with the sight of a contentedly purring Napoleon on the floor of the car and a put upon Illya looking disdainfully at the black mass of fur curled up beneath him. He growled softly at Napoleon and looks at Gaby in askance, begging for her to leave Napoleon at the side of the road, drive away, and never look back..

"How the hell did you get in there?" Gaby demanded, half amused. Napoleon stood and stretched, taking care not to rake his claws across the carpet. After delicately giving his paws a cursory wash, he lept up onto the seat, curling up to Illya. The dog tried shuffling back with annoyance, but seeing that he's already pressed against the seat, he gave up with a sigh and moved to accommodate Napoleon. With a happy chirp, Napoleon rolled around to groom Illya, who accepted it with resigned pleasure.

 

Gaby shrugged. Perhaps if Napoleon decided to tag along, they’ll cause twice the damage and get her out before the main course is even served. Stretching forward to give Napoleon a head rub and Illya a warning to treat Napoleon kindly, she turned back to start the car.

Arriving at the date's house with a few minutes to spare, Gaby leaned back in her seat, letting out a deep breath. All the stalling in the world isn’t going to do her any good. The faster this is over, the faster she can report cheerfully to her mother that it was an unmitigated failure, and the faster she can return to her Friday nights in. Turning to look at the back seat where Napoleon is curled up with Illya watching protectively over him, Gaby addressed them. 

"Boys," she said, snapping on her sunglasses. "Do your worst."

Illya gave a sombre woof, rigid stance ready for trouble, and Napoleon blinks slowly at her, yawning wide to reveal his sharp canines, the feline approximation of rubbing your hands together with evil glee.

Peter Clarkson lives in a semi detached in the snobby part of town, all hard lines and glass windows. His lawn is neat, almost obsessively so, and Gaby wouldn't be surprised if there is a sign saying 'Please do not step on the grass' somewhere. Her heels crushed softly on the gravel as she strode down the lane to his door, Napoleon and Illya following behind like a strange sort of entourage. 

Illya took one look at the pristine garden Clarkson keeps and goes over to pee all over it. Napoleon wandered off amongst the flower pot to explore and destroy. 

Gaby smiles. It's a start.

She pressed the doorbell, taking off her sunglasses and twisting it nervously in her hands as she waits.

The door opens to a very sweaty man, someone she vaguely remembers as Peter Clarkson, with a very forgettable face and horrible fashion sense. He grinned when he sees her, twisting his body to let her in, babbling all the while about how good it is to see her again.

Gaby stood at the doorway and blew a sharp whistle, smiling when Clarkson almost jumps in fright, hearing him stutter a little as Napoleon and Illya trotted out from where they were hidden in the bushes.

"Do... Do they really have to be here?" he asks uncertainly, eyeing Napoleon's muddy paws and Illya's sheer size. Napoleon winds himself around her legs, dirt sticking to his whiskers while Illya levels a dangerous look at Clarkson.

"Oh, yes," Gaby replies cheerfully, slipping out of her coat to hang it up. She could feel his stare on her as she did so, only snapping away as the two animals slipped past him to pad into the house. "I haven't managed to find anyone who isn't too intimidated by Illya to take care of him for the evening and Napoleon doesn't like to be alone. He's not house trained, by the way."

Clarkson wrings his hands, seeming to consider his options. Finally he muttered, "It's ok, they can stay." with a very pained smile on his lips. Gaby almost feels sorry for him.

She reconsiders her opinion later, when she trying to not fall face first into the mound of spaghetti in front of her out of sheer boredom and a desire not to be poisoned by horrendously undercooked food. The man doesn't even season his chicken. It's a literal shit fest.

The only saving grace is that he provides good wine, and Gaby had been making great progress through her sixth glass. She swirls the liquid and gulps another glass down, figuring that if she got wasted, Clarkson would probably sound more interesting. Plastering a smile on her face, she nodded along to whatever the hell he was explaining, taking advantage of his diverted attention to pinch a slice of chicken off her plate and sneak it under the table to Illya. She tried to feed Napoleon the tasteless morsel earlier, but he had taken a lick of it, made a face similar to the one he did when he tasted lemons, and stalked off into the living room.

Illya accepted the bite graciously, licking her fingers before resuming his death glare at Clarkson, occasionally accompanied by threatening growls whenever he got too animated. 

Clarkson’s voice faltered as he met Illya’s gaze, shrinking visibly when Illya showed his teeth, body straining to pounce.

“Err, is he always like this?” There is definitely a tone of fear threaded in his voice, and Gaby grinned into her wine.

“Oh, no, Illya’s a darling. He’s never hurt me before.” Dropping her tone, she leaned forward. “But sometimes, he gets just a little too excited. I’ve seen him tear another dog’s throat out.” Shaking her head, she furrowed her brows, faux sombre. "Truly horrifying. He didn't even bat an eyelid."

Settling back in her seat, Gaby watched with satisfaction as Clarkson flinched visibly, moving his chair back incrementally. It wasn’t all lies; Illya had indeed torn a dog’ throat out, but it was a tattered soft toy Gaby found lying near the bin and given to Illya, who had promptly pulled all the stuffings out of it in delight.

Clarkson opened his mouth, probably to resume whatever boring subject he was on, when there was the sound of something expensive smashing on the floor.

He whipped around, face in a tragic ‘O’ of surprise, and sprinted in the direction of the living room. Illya took the chance to mark one of the table leg.

Gaby patted his head approvingly and stood, grabbing the bottle of wine and taking a swig before moving to find Clarkson and Napoleon. From the sound of screaming, Napoleon had really outdone himself this time. 

She’s right. The living room is shredded.

There’s glass on the floor, bits of pottery from a rather large vase, and various claws marks on the leather of the sofas. For some reason, Napoleon had managed to also puncture a few cushions, and the air is thick with feathers.

“Oh dear,” Gaby said mildly, sidestepping the shard of glass to collecting Napoleon from where he was observing his work in satisfaction on a tall shelf. “He seems to have made a mess.”

“A mess?!” Clarkson sputtered, hand going to his hair. “My house is fucking destroyed!”

Gaby was about to correct him that, no, his house isn’t destroyed, but his living room is, when a streak of fur shot past her leg, aiming for the cat nestled in her arms. 

Illya snapped his jaws, sharp teeth inches away from taking off the tip of Napoleon’s tail, face conveying the happiness of someone finally being able to take revenge. Napoleon screeched, leaping from her hand, but careful not to claw, sprinting away from Illya towards what she presumed is Clarkson’s bedroom, hissing and spitting as Illya chased after him. There is the sound of booming barks and yowling, together with the rather cathartic racket of sheets tearing and things toppling.

There is an uncomfortable silence as Clarkson stared unattractively, torn between screaming and the desire to stay sane in front of his guest. Grabbing her chance, Gaby muttered a quick “I’ll check on them,” before brisk walking to the bedroom, mildly guilt ridden and very much relieved that the evening had turned out exciting after all.

“Good boys!” she murmured, giving them quick kisses to their heads as she sees them lying on a broken bed, very much calm and not fighting. It was clear now that they had set this up, clever creatures, and are now waiting for her to collect them to beat a hasty retreat.

Scooping Napoleon to her chest, she led them out, shouting “Bad boy! Bad boy!” In what she hopes is in a convincingly angry tone, swinging her bag onto her shoulders and calling out a quick apology and goodbye over her shoulder to Clarkson, who is still standing dazed in the living room.

Half sprinting to her car, she gently sets Napoleon down on the car seat and shoos Illya in, collapsing onto the front seat with a laugh. Leaning forward, Illya gives her a triumphant lick, tail thumping enthusiastically on the seat. Napoleon wriggles to the front, purring like a motor, settling himself on Gaby’s lap to roll onto his back. Gaby gave him a tickle and smoothed Illya’s ear, turning her attention to getting the hell out of here before Clarkson asks them to pay for the damage.

Halfway through the ride, with the radio turned down low, Napoleon napping shotgun and Illya giving her and the cat an occasional lick, Gaby feels the smile cracking her lips and thinks, this may just be the most fun I’ve had in a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had quite a lot of fun writing this but I kinda feel sorry for Clarkson. Oops.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya is a possesive bastard

Illya is a possessive bastard.

It's no surprise, seeing as he has exactly three toys (a squeaky duck, a rubber ball, and a chew toy shaped like a bone) and a dog bed. He keeps immaculate care of all of them, handling each one gently and with a reverence.

Napoleon, of course, thinks it's hilarious.

Or at least, Gaby thinks Napoleon thinks it's hilarious from the number of times he tried to steal the toys away from Illya.

Napoleon owns nothing and takes everything, so it's easy to see why he finds Illya's behaviour curious. Still, Gaby thinks it's excessively bad mannered to go around hiding another's treasured possession just to watch with perverse glee as they hunt around for it, whining and moping.

It starts off with a predictable pattern; Illya would notice one of his things are missing, approach Gaby with panicked eyes and a whine, and then try to hunt it down. Napoleon would sit on a high shelf and groom himself with practiced innocence, tail swishing and eye slitted as he watch Illya nose around every corner, getting increasingly frustrated. 

It always ends the same, with Illya is close to burying himself in the couch with misery, heavy body dumped on top of Gaby as he mopes and howls in a maudlin manner so at odds with his size. Gaby would extricate herself with difficulty, and then alternate between sharp words and gentle cajoling to coax Napoleon into giving back the toy.

Illya, being rather smart himself, cottoned on quickly, and started chasing after Napoleon directly whenever his toys go missing. It would result in a skirmish, neither side giving in, until Gaby shows up to break them up.

The toys are always returned to their original position the next day.

Sometimes, Napoleon would go for something less subtler, usually grabbing the squeaky duck and bounding to a place where Illya cannot reach, gazing down at Illya with unfettered glee and squeaking the toy obnoxiously. Illya, obviously frustrated at the lack of means to pull Napoleon's fur off piece by piece, settled for pacing restlessly under Napoleon, occasionally glancing up and growling menacingly. 

If he was feeling particularly risky, Napoleon would tuck himself in the dog bed, casting his eyes imperiously out on his kingdom in the living room, leaving a frustrated Illya, who refused to receive another clawing for trying to chase Napoleon off, to drag Napoleon around in a truly spectacular chariot. Gaby could almost see Napoleon imagining the throngs of loyal subjects, lining up by the roads like towering books in a pile, waving and cheering as they pass.

On days where he was feeling lazy, Napoleon would go for a game of ‘Not Touching’, padding around Illya nonchalantly in tighter and tighter circles, before slowly, with a surgeon’s precision, extend his white socked paw, poising it with a knife edge’s point on top of the toy, every muscle frozen as Illya rumbles him warning. His claws would extend, moving incrementally, until they almost, almost touch - and then Napoleon is leaping back, tail swishing and glee apparent as Illya barks his assault.

Gaby is used to their antics, oftentimes mumbling “Boys,” before turning back to her work or her television shows, not because she is uncaring, but because sooner or later, Napoleon would show up with a flower or an interestingly shaped rock or, once, an eggshell held gently in his mouth, presenting it to Illya and nudging him with purring apologies. Illya would resist with grumbles and turned heads, but he would relent, and they’d end up curled against each other, inseparable and docile again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, I'm not yet done with this! Catpoleon and Illyap are just too much fun to write.
> 
> Inspired by this vine: http://thebestoftumbling.com/post/123371738691/puppy-attempts-to-reclaim-bed-from-cat


End file.
